When I was a little kid, my sisters and I had a baby-sitter after school. She wasn’t very interested in us; stuck pretty much to reading her romance novels. And to get the peace and quiet required to read, she’d plonk us down in front of a lot of Walt Disney films. My favorite? Sleeping Beauty. Maleficent the witch queen reminded me of the women in the magazines my father kept hidden in his study. Brazen and powerful, they stared down the camera and into me with a mixture of desire and contempt. Read more »
Archive for the Fiction Category
Debt collection is a tricky business. And what people don’t realize (or aren’t willing to credit) is that it’s a legitimate trade. You don’t just walk into a person’s house and say, ‘give me the money’. When you go to collect, a million things can go wrong. Read more »
I like Mr. Gianarelli. He’s a nice guy, but anyone doing my job tonight would be nervous. Paul was late coming back from the armed cash delivery, which meant I’d have to start alone. Read more »
I have been published alongside long-time associate and all-round literary heavyweight, Rodney Hall, in The Review of Australian Fiction.
To imbibe the fruits of our genius, go here:
Agatha hates the way she looks. There’s the semblance of beauty, but it’s all come out wrong. Not like her mother. When her mother was young she was a flight attendant and a model as well. Apparently, she used to eat raw mince-meat to keep her weight down. Read more »
I don’t remember much about what happened, as far as ending up in a holding cell. The three of us lay there, wrapped in the darkness of pain and concussion for an unspecified amount of time. There was a sound that kept filtering through, light as the touch of a tap dripping on concrete. The sound of Knackers whimpering. His arm was snapped. Read more »
Many of the episodes in Mouthful of Stones are ‘true’. However, this doesn’t mean that all of them overtook your humble narrator. This story belongs to a very good friend who had once been a member of the now-defunct armed robbery squad. After hearing it, I inserted a first-person narrator to make it fit the shape of my design. Read more »
The Prince of Wales was pumping, along with the rest of Fitzroy Street. In the name of gentrification, the Port Philip City Council had constructed some kind of super-tram stop where Fitzroy Street curved into The Esplanade and, in their wisdom, effectively created a bottle-neck. It became even busier than it was before. At eleven thirty at night, the dark was split into a kaleidoscope of refraction. I parked the Passat down a side street on the West St Kilda side, the only place you’d even consider finding a park at that time of night. Read more »
Wally and Johnny were standing outside the sliding door to the pub when Pat got back. Wally was dressed in full lycra; white, orange and lime. A racing bike with a matching colour scheme leaned against the brickwork beside him.
“You look like a fucking radioactive boiled egg,” said Pat.
“Gee, Pat, tell us what you really think. Don’t hold back now.” Read more »
I knew Marie was finishing late tonight, so I ate an early dinner at the pub. I had a couple of pots with a counter meal and was feeling good when I stepped out into the crisp, dry, mid-winter evening. I was crossing the parking lot when I saw something I didn’t like.
This guy, his wife and two little kids were milling about a late-model Ford station wagon. The streetlight above flickered on and the circumferent spill of yellow light illuminated their car. The wife was bent over in the rear passenger door, baby on her hip, struggling with the baby capsule. The little girl played nearby. The little boy was spinning around, arms out, singing to himself. Read more »